Aquaphobic
by Ada Farrow
Summary: Two liquids make Jack edgy.


**Aquaphobic**  
By Ada Farrow

Jack didn't learn to swim until he was 24 years old. Incredible as it was, he'd spent trips to the shore wading in shallow waters and boat trips holding onto rails at all times until then. He learned like any child would, but much quicker, mastering the dog paddle and moving on to the cupped hands and S-shaped underwater strokes of freestyle. He'd learned because it was something he felt he had to do, not because he'd wanted to. He hated the water, especially pools. It wasn't the cerulean water or the sickly scent of chlorine. It was the feeling of being trapped—trapped in a little box of water surrounding him. He felt like a little plastic Jack afloat in a snowglobe. But he did it all one summer, the breaststroke and butterfly as well. Jack never did things in halves. He stayed at the pool for a few hours every day for eight weeks. He hated it, but he did it. Once he felt capable enough, he got out of the pool and never got in again.

At six or seven Jack had done something bad. He can't remember what. He was so afraid that his dad would get mad and hit him, but he hadn't. Christian had smiled instead and led Jack into the bathroom. "C'mon, Jack, it's bath time. You like to take baths, don't you?" Jack remembers the thundering sound of the water filling the tub. Recalls some of Christian's soothing words as he pulled his son into an embrace: "You knew my papers are confidential, didn't you?" So that's what he must have done, played in his father's file cabinet. He'd nodded in agreement. "So if you knew that, then why did you do it?" He opened his mouth to answer, but before he'd known better, his father was forcing Jack's head underwater. Taken by surprise, Jack gasped in a lungful of water, screwing his eyes and mouth shut. The cold water had suffocated him as Christian held Jack's prone little body down by his neck and back. Christian's muffled curses reverberated around him underwater. Jack's body squirmed and trembled and his heart had beat faster and faster for fear. He must've cried then; Jack remembers thinking that he was dying.

"Jack! Jack, there's someone out there!" Charlie screamed. That was the next time Jack got into the water since his swimming lessons. Galvanized into action, Jack rushed into the surf before thinking that he might have lost his skill. He hoped it was one of those "riding a bicycle"-type things. It was only after he was hauling Boone back to shore that he realized he was going into a sort of shock. His muscles had tensed on contact with the icy fingers of sea debris coiling around his arms and legs. His skin felt cold and slimy, and he had the sudden sensation that he was suffocating.

Jack remembers how, at fourteen, he'd spent a while in his father's study staring at a decanter of cognac. Funny how it could make his father act so oddly. Granted, the sober Christian was no Ben Cartwright, but alcohol definitely didn't help his disposition much. Or did it? The thing was, Christian would come home from a hard day's work complaining about this and that. He'd drop himself into a leather chair and pour himself a something over ice. It seemed to calm him a little, and Jack had realized that he actually liked one-drink dad over either extreme of intoxication or lack there of. One drink could mellow him out to the point of calling Jack into his office and asking him about his day, listening to tentative complaints about struggles in history class or something funny that happened after school. Sometimes Christian even offered to help him with his homework or laughed with him, and Jack liked that a lot. One drink. So he curiously eyed the beverage in the cabinet. One drink to make it all better. Hands shaking a little bit, Jack took out the key to the liquor cabinet that he'd found—hidden in a crack in Christian's desk that Jack had discovered long ago—and unlocked it. He'd uncapped it with bandaged fingers and raised the container to his split lips.

Christian had come home unexpectedly early. A shocked Jack had scrambled to replace the liquor, dropping the decanter in the process. Jack stood in petrified red-handedness, amber liquid seeping into the carpet below him. Jack's mind was a blank slate then. He hadn't heard the glass shatter or smelled the fermented fumes. He only saw, pupils shrinking in fear, his father picking up a shard from the broken decanter. His senses gradually returned. He'd smelled the alcohol on his father's breath as he drew close and snatched Jack's arm. He'd heard his own anguished pleading and futile apologies as Christian easily twisted his arm behind him at an unnatural angle. He'd felt the glass as it sliced a slow, deep gash through the tissue of his bicep. Briefly he'd seen blood, but only until he'd blacked out.

The worst thing was having to wash his arm off afterwards. He quickly patted the water off of himself and saw to his own bandaging. Jack had considered skipping school the next day. He'd already broken his finger playing basketball and split his lip at baseball. How'd he gotten a slash in his arm, sword fighting? Jack had sighed and laid out a long-sleeved shirt for himself.

Later he'd gotten some tattoos where the scar was. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had to.

Now he's surrounded by water once again. As much as he despises the necessity, Jack's now in a situation where water's more precious than ever. He downs a bottle as he heads out from the caves. The irony isn't lost on him.


End file.
